


Autumn Shall Come Early

by ProjectPython



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fallen Angel, Gen, M/M, Prophecy, The nice and accurate prophecies of Agnes Nutter witch, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:00:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProjectPython/pseuds/ProjectPython
Summary: After Armageddon, Crowley has a frightening dream, one which he can’t seem to decipher. All he knows is that he needs to talk to Aziraphale, and that he’s certain something terrible is going to happen.





	1. Chapter 1

It was two nights after Armageddon, or rather, two early mornings after. The sun had not yet risen fully but was instead poking a few tendrils of light over the horizon, as if testing the water. Deep in London, tucked away in a little flat high above the city streets, an angel and a demon were sleeping soundly, arms wrapped tightly around one another and foreheads lightly touching. 

Crowley hadn’t been this happy in his entire existence. He still couldn’t fully comprehend that they had won, that they had thwarted both heaven and hell’s attempts to end the world and that they had ended up here, in his flat, together, just him and his angel. Though, he wasn’t thinking about this at the moment. Crowley was dreaming. 

While it might be a ridiculous concept to think about, demons actually do dream (if they choose to sleep). Crowley’s dreams ranged from preforming enormous deeds of evil to simply having lunch with Aziraphale, but they were always pleasant. Not once had he had a nightmare. Until tonight, that is. 

It started out innocently enough. He was standing in an almost impossibly green field, barefoot and dressed in white robes. With a pang, he realized that he was, at least here, an angel. He felt at the tips of his hair, which hung in spiralling locks over his shoulders. An angel.

Far from him, just a glimmer in the distance, was a burning pile of... something. He couldn’t quite make it out. Crowley let his feet carry him forward, and, though he walked slowly, they hardly touched the ground.

The sky, he noticed, was an inky purple, speckled with blue and red stars. There was no sun. The grass, as he got closer to the burning mound, became yellow and sticky. It stuck to the soles of his feet when he grazed it, making it almost look like he was wearing putrid sandals. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the fire. As he walked, he snapped his fingers as an experiment. No sound. An uneasiness swept over him.

As he reached the mound, his heart lurched. He knew what was burning, though he wished he didn’t. What looked like every single book in Aziraphale’s bookshop was smouldering at his feet. Pages curled and charred as the fire licked over them, and fragments of words flew upward with the sparks. But still no sound. A novel caught Crowley’s eye and, unable to control himself, he plunged his hand into the pile. The flames seemed to flee from his hand, retreating into the crackling paper. He wrapped his fingers around the spine of the book and tugged it free, pulling it to safety and hugging it to his chest for a few seconds, feeling its warmth through the fabric of his robes. He had never really appreciated books as much as Aziraphale, but this one, somehow, comforted him. It was like seeing a familiar face in a room of strangers. Perhaps this could make sense of this strange landscape, and show him why he was seeing this. He held the book in front of him, dusting some ash off the cover, and wondered at how unscathed it was. Not one burnt patch, not one flaw. Almost like it had been printed yesterday, actually. The green on the cover was bright and vibrant, and the gold edging shone brightly under his fingertips. But that was impossible.

Crowley opened the pages of ‘The Nice And Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch’, only to find that the pages were stuck together, or, at least, most of them. They opened somewhere in the middle, to a page just like any other, covered in numbered prophecies, except most of them were impossible to read. The more Crowley tried to focus on the page, the more the words seemed to swim before his eyes, twisting and turning and avoiding his gaze. The more he stared at this strange pool of words, the more he found himself drawn to the upper right corner. He blinked in surprise as he saw that the prophecy up there was clear as day. Unnumbered, though. That was odd. He read it carefully.

‘At which hour the ash and smoke is once again the pulp of trees, thither shalt beest a reckoning for those who defile the valorous name of one Micheal, and autumn shalt come early to London Town.’

Crowley frowned. He read it again. And once more, just to make sure. He needed to remember this. He might ask Aziraphale, later, about what it could mean. He would know better than anyone. Something about the wording frightened him, though he didn’t know what. 

A sound startled him. It was the sound of footsteps. He whipped his head around to see where they might be coming from, but saw nothing. A door closed. The fire vanished. Crowley opened his eyes to the empty, wrinkled sheets in front of him, and the absence of an angel in his arms. He hugged himself tightly and shivered. The feeling of contentment had disappeared. The magic had worn off. Now, a new lingering fear hung over him like a black cloud, threatening to pour down on him at any second.


	2. Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is wrong with Aziraphale. He’s changing rapidly and painfully, and he can’t, just can’t, let Crowley see him do it. But he can’t hide what’s happening to him for long.

Aziraphale woke in the wee hours of the morning, his forehead soaked in sweat and his fingers gripping into Crowley’s back violently. He relaxed them, breathing out shakily. He didn’t know what was wrong, but he had never felt like this before. There was a searing heat inside him, nothing too strong at the moment, but threatening to grow more intense if left unattended. It seemed to be honed in on his back, right up near his shoulder blades. He flexed his shoulders carefully, so as not to wake Crowley. Nothing seemed to help. 

Aziraphale carefully extracted himself from the bed, making sure to pull the covers back over the sleeping demon. Crowley’s forehead was scrunched up, his lips fixed in a tight frown. Aziraphale thought of waking him, but the pain in his back intensified, causing him to double over. He clutched the sheets and pressed his lips together to stop himself from screaming. He knew, somehow, that he needed to unfold his wings. The bedroom was too small. This would have to move elsewhere. 

He stumbled into the office, his arms clutched around him, trying to somehow block out the pain that was now shooting across his body. He could hardly walk properly, and his breath came out in stifled gasps. He needed to stretch. Let his wings breath for a moment. Anything to alleviate the pain.

The back of his nightgown tore open as his wings shot through it with a satisfying ‘whomp’. They grazed the edge of the room, and feathers floated down around Aziraphale as he flapped them a little, enjoying the slow release of the pain. 

Wait. Feathers? He grabbed at one and looked at it with fear. Its white, delicate edges caught the thin light coming in through the window. Feathers. They littered the floor like a fluffy white carpet. It almost looked as if his wings had simply dropped off. But he could feel their weight, same as ever. They couldn’t be gone...

As he turned his head, he silently wished that they HAD just fallen off. 

“No,” he chocked. “No, not now.” His eyes darted back to the bedroom, where he could see Crowley, fast asleep, unknowing of what was going on. As he gazed at him, the pain began to return, first hardly noticeable, then the same stabbing pressure he had felt before. 

“No, please no!” He cried, and looked up to the ceiling desperately. “Oh, stop it! Stop it, PLEASE!” 

There came no answer. Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, then at his wings, and blinked away his tears. This couldn’t happen here. Not with Crowley around to see. He had to leave. He had to leave NOW. 

————

After he woke up, it took Crowley a few minutes to regain his composure. For a moment, he was terrified that he might have forgotten the prophecy, but it cam back to him surprisingly easy, as if the words were floating in front of him. 

“At which hour the ash and smoke,” he mumbled, his words slightly muffled by his pillow, “is once again the pulp of trees, thither shall beest a reckoning for those who defile the valorous name of one Micheal, and autumn shall come early to London Town.”

He closed his eyes again. The words were sour on his tongue. 

The absence of Aziraphale hit him again, and he shot up in bed, looking wildly around the room. His eyes fell on something by the door. A single feather resting just within the doorframe. He scrambled out of bed and fell to his knees, picking up the feather with quivering hands and turning it over in his fingers. It was Aziraphale’s, he just knew it. A flash of white drew his eyes slowly up to the office area, where, with a lurch of his stomach, he found the floor covered in a thick layer of identical feathers. They were on the floor, the desk, in the next room even, resting on the soil of the potted plants. He gathered a few up in his hands and squeezed them tightly before lifting his head and shouting as loudly as he could.

“Aziraphale! Where are you?”

No answer came. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. It nearly stopped as his eyes rested on the single black feather by the front door, laying imposingly among its white brothers like a thumbprint on a clean window.


End file.
